Chapter ONE

Nineteen ninety-five in Los Angeles, California, outside LAX International Airport. Its sleek space-aged Theme Building rest under the clear night sky as vehicles roll around the U-shaped terminal loop. Inside Terminal 4 is Griffin Oliver, walking in the late hours of the night through the American Airlines corridor, passing flashing departure monitors on his way towards his flight. The departure area, filled mainly with businessmen and other travelers trying to evade midday LAX crowds. Griffin, not happy at all about his late-night travel schedule, not a time he would’ve picked, but since he didn’t pay for the ticket, it-is what it-is. Griffin is on his way to hang out with some of his closest friends from high school, who live and work in New Orleans. That work being illegal pharmaceuticals; the business of transporting and selling crack cocaine. In the nineties, in L.A., it wasn’t that difficult to get into. Growing up in their neighborhood, there was always someone who knew someone who had the hook-up and was more than willing to front product to young entrepreneurs willing to jump feet first in the drug game, and take the chance of becoming a drug King-Pin.
Griffin and his high school buddies remained very tight after graduation, no matter what they got into. One joined the military to become a computer technician, another worked in real estate flipping homes, and Griffin chose architecture school after his college football career ended. Receiving a D1 scholarship doesn’t guarantee a life in the NFL, so after professional football wasn’t an option, he chose to go back to school and study something he was always interested in since junior high school. Nowadays, it’s called middle school, just another bright idea from the brain-trust of those at the LA Unified School District.
Griffin’s plane ticket was purchased by Maxwell “Maxi” Harper, who wanted him to come out to New Orleans for a weekend of partying in between Griffin’s architecture classes. Also, to show him how well he was doing and the lavish lifestyle they were living since getting into the dope game. As far back as middle school, Maxwell was the standout, the class clown, the loudest one in the room who always had a jokey snap-back. He never had the bones of a real leader, but held the reins as the most popular within their clique. So playing puppet master was just a part of Maxi’s larger-than-life persona.
By them remaining close after high school kept them in each other’s lives over the years. They shared life experiences as a family would, spending time together as if they were actual brothers. So the travel invite to Griffin was typical, even with the questionable choices that some of them had made. The decision to get into the drug game had the members of their clique split; some went with Maxwell while others stayed out of it. Griffin remained on the fence, not judging like those who stayed out did; he was intrigued but also skeptical. He questioned the fact that Maxwell was steering the ship, which gave him pause, but when Maxi sent a ticket, Griffin jumped at the chance to see their operation for himself. The thought of his best friends maintaining a drug empire in New Orleans was wild; he couldn’t pass up seeing that for himself.    
Everyone who remained in L.A. knew what they were doing, and would talk about the dangers of jail or worse at their weekend hang-outs. As they watched sports and played dominoes, they would discuss the chances their friends were taking and question the risk of a visit. Griffin kept his planned trip to himself, knowing it would cause a stir within the group. So for his first venture out there, he told no one, inside he felt like an explorer heading off to an unknown land, not knowing what to expect. He was fully aware of the jeopardy he was putting himself in, but with those you consider brothers, you tend to take unnecessary chances that you would never think of taking with others outside your circle of trust.
Also traveling that night was Vincent Rutherford, another one from their high school clique who chose to join Maxwell in New Orleans. Maxwell and Vincent were the closest among all of them; those two were always together in high school and even years after. It was like they were connected at the hip; if you saw one, you could bet the other was either around or on his way. Their tight connection seemed to work because of their differences. Maxi, the big personality, always joking, and making fun of others, craving the spotlight, while Vincent was the smooth, quiet observer, not saying much but holding his own within their power dynamic.    
Vincent entered the terminal separately from Griffin, being accustomed to the late travel hours, he navigated the emptiness with a confident stride. Draped in excess as he glided through the sparse corridors, he exuded an air of coolness. Even when one wouldn’t expect much of an audience, Vincent took the time to stand out with his fashion choices. Shoes polished to mirror-like perfection, silk shirt, and slacks all designer. He was drenched in opulence, a reminder that he belonged to a world of his own making.
This was the era before 9/11 and the TSA shit-show, when you could walk with your family to the gate. Protocols meant shoes and belts stayed on, no full-body scanners, and no liquid rules. Metal detectors beeped occasionally as pocket change would set them off, and nobody panicked when they heard the buzzer. If you set off the alarm, the guard might say, ”Step back and try again.” No wand. No pat-down. 
There was a table next to an X-ray belt manned by a bored guard, who cared more about the hoagie he had in his locker than what a passenger had in their suitcase. It was a time when the world spun under the illusion of innocent behavior, at least when it came to air travel.
Griffin spotted Vincent and trailed him through the terminal, mirroring his moves. He kept his distance to remain separate; that gap was also expressed by their choice of clothing, which was in stark contrast. Griffin was understated, wearing a standard dark blue suit. He carried a leather case along with his drawing tube from school, which showed his architectural pursuits. As both men made their way toward the narrow gray metal detectors, Griffin kept Vincent in his periphery, taking quick glances but devoid of any recognition. As Vincent reached the detector’s doorway, the security guard waved him and the three women behind through without a word. As Griffin placed his leather case and drawing tube on the X-ray belt, the guard watched the X-ray monitor, barely taking any notice. Griffin now on the other side, scooped up his case and tube. The guard suddenly looked up at him, “So you draw plans, huh?” Griffin, modestly nodded yes and continued off toward the departure gates.
The main departure terminal was a large circular space with high ceilings and a dark blue carpet with geometric patterns that covered the floors. Both Griffin and Vincent ended up at the same gate counter area. Griffin remained in a comfortable distance behind Vincent as they passed the rows of molded plastic chairs bolted to the floor. He then took a seat near the gate counter, which had a plastic signboard above with New Orleans on it, under was the flight number and departure time. The flight agent standing at the counter was talking into a blue colored American Airlines phone, it was the old-style kind with a coiled cord that moved with every shift one made as you talked. After getting confirmation, she hung up the receiver, picked up the wired microphone mounted to the countertop to announce, “American Airlines Flight 1178, service to New Orleans, now boarding at Gate A6.” Griffin and Vincent both moved to line up behind passengers as the flight agent opened the door to the boarding bridge. The passengers began entering the bridge-way walking pass a couple of men still seated taking last puffs off their cigarettes. The smoke drifted up around their heads as they raised to join the line of boarding passengers. Indoor smoking restrictions were newly enacted at the time, and some wouldn’t accept the regulations and smoked anyway. As the men walked to the rear of the line, Griffin, Vincent, and the rest of the passengers continued walking through their smoke with no contempt or disdain; it was just a sign of the times. 
Neither of them acknowledgment the other once on the plane. Vincent settled into his seat as Griffin walked passed to take his window seat across the aisle. Griffin had to squeeze by a businessman in the aisle seat, sharing quick pleasantries as he passed. After sitting, Griffin placed his drawing tube under the seat in front of him and pulled out the seat belts to be ready to lock when instructed. Once comfortable in his seat, the businessman struck up a light conversation with Griffin, they entered into casual small talk discussing minor details about each other.  
Vincent had pre-snapped his seat belt, not waiting to be notified by the overhead attendant announcement. With his SkyTel two-way pager in hand, he quickly set up to send off a couple of messages while the plane was still at the gate, and he had a signal bar. So he began typing his message on the small rectangular green LCD screen, first sending one to Tabitha, mother of their two-year-old daughter Brea, the lifeline to his real life in Los Angeles. He typed: - How’s my baby girl doing? - You break her fever? His pager buzzed back with a response from Tabitha. She, messaged him that their daughter is doing fine, but was more concerned about his absence and how long this trip away from them would be. He reassured her, typing: It won’t be that long - I’ll be back in a month this time - nothing more than that - I promise. His eyes then shifted back at Griffin, who was talking with the businessman seated next to him. Vincent watched them both, and it seemed Griffin was giving just as much as his seat-mate, so he returned his attention to his two-way pager continuing with Tabitha. At the end of their back-in-forth, he ended it by sending her his customary ending message: Love you’s both. Knowing the time he’d have a signal would end soon, he pulled up Maxwell’s number. Back then, there were no cellular or pager signals mid-flight, planes were not equipped with onboard signal repeaters or Wi-Fi, and cabins were signal dead zones. Two-way pagers only worked if they were in range of their network towers. At that time it was hit or miss and they normally only worked when the plane was still at the gate or taxiing, but never airborne. 
Vincent rushed to send a message to Maxwell in New Orleans.
Vincent: What you doin?
Maxwell: Nothing
Vincent: I know you're fuckin-off somewhere!
Maxwell: I said NOTHING fool, I'm chillin
Vincent: Your ass better be up to get us in the morning -
         don't be late!
Maxwell: I’ll be there! If I'm not - get a damn cab        
         nigga - over and mothafuck’in out!
Recently there’s been an uneasy tension building between Vincent and Maxwell, as their underlying problems grow, causing a crack to form in their once solid bond. 

#

Lying back in his king-size bed, Maxwell is pissed at being questioned by Vincent. He tosses his pager over on the nightstand, rolling over toward the honey-dip lying next to him, “Wake up, baby, round two.” He whispered in her ear, pulling back the satin sheets to admire her naked body.

#

Back on the plane, passengers had fastened their seatbelts, flight attendants ended their safety announcements, and the plane taxied down the runway. As the onboard lighting dimmed, casting shadows across passengers’ faces, the plane ascended into the clouds. Griffin’s exploratory journey into a world he’s only heard stories about from those selling him the dream versus what may actually exist once the plane lands has him overthinking different scenarios as the flight races toward the unknown. His only distraction is the conversation with the stranger seated next to him. 
The middle-aged conservative businessman continued to exchange pleasantries with Griffin, along with a judging side-eye every once in a while. The rhythmic tone of the engines drowned out their convo as the plane leveled off at its cruising altitude. 
The passengers settled in, embracing the comfort of their seats. Some adjusting pillows, others lost in the hum of the cabin as the overhead pin lights created scattered patterns of soft cones of light throughout the plane. 
Vincent is sitting back in his seat, looking up at the ceiling of the plane, frustrated about the drama in his world; the growing hostility between him and Maxwell, the unfulfilled promises made to Tabitha that underscore the intricate web of disjoined relationships that define the double life he’s balancing. Living this way is jeopardizing his efforts to keep his family together. He shakes it off, placing the weight of the troubles awaiting him in New Orleans on the back burner. He turned his attention back to Griffin, who was still chatting with the guy seated next to him. Vincent stared with a mix of suspicion and curiosity. 
As the airplane soared through the clouds at thirty thousand feet, most passengers were asleep as Griffin and his seat-mate engaged in exploratory conversation. 
Griffin, “So-Jake, your business has you traveling a lot. What are those frequent-flyer miles all about? Do they work? Can you really use them? Or is it just an airline hustle?” 
Jake smirks. “It’s a goddamned hustle, I fly across this country, building up miles and miles... you’d have to accumulate hundreds of thousands of points to get something you’d want.” They both laugh. Jake’s first impression of the young African-American in a suit was changing, no longer as he did in their initial back-and-forth, when he was pressing Griffin like a detective. Their dance of words, punctuated by their cultural differences, showcased the apparent contrast between the two men. It revealed the vastness between their worlds, which was as wide and as deep as the Grand Canyon, but through their cultural divide, they started to find some commonality. Griffin had no problem keeping up, with his blend of street-wise confidence and his college education, he could easily navigate through their exchange.
Jake continues to be surprised by Griffin's insight on topics he thought would be over his head. "Yeah-it’s a beautiful place, green... with amazing tropical landscapes and the coastline restaurants are freaking paradise-Man! I loved it, I have to get back there someday.” Griffin added with a casual delivery. He has Jake mesmerized, completely fixated on his every word. The wall he had up when Griffin first sat down is now a distant memory.
"It sounds interesting," Jake commented, his voice resonated with wonder. “I’ve been to Puerto Rico a couple of times, I definitely have to check out the Hyatt-Regency Grand Reserve next time I’m there.”
Griffin's response was delivered again with measured poise, "It’s a nice spot. Not to mention the golf course... the sixteenth—a par five, was a son-of-a-bitch."
Jake’s eyes pop, wowed by Griffin's knowledge of the nuances of the exclusive Porto Rico golf resort. 
Not wanting to overdo it, he pulled back a bit. “Now I didn’t golf, just drove the cart; my father golfed with his buddies. They had a blast. I had about a six-pack of Medalla Light just being my dad's chauffeur.”
“Yeah, that’s the national beer over there!” Jake replied. This gave Griffin a nod of respect with a mixture of surprise and admiration for his vast knowledge of the many topics they discussed.
Griffin guided the conversation with a delicate blend of diplomacy, charm, and untruths woven together like the tapestry of a beautiful Persian rug. He was thankful that he watched a TV show about vacationing in Porto Rico a week ago, which supplied him with the foundation for his creative storytelling. The part about driving the golf cart for his father did actually happen. It was years ago when he was ten, and it wasn’t at a private resort but at Chester Washington public golf course, an inner city course named after a Black journalist who helped desegregate LA County golf courses. This treasured memory took place before Griffin’s father died from lung cancer the following year.     
Jake, visibly taken by Griffin's familiarity with the locale, probed further, now with polite inquiry, and asked. "You say you're in the restaurant business... right?"
Griffin’s words tinged with quiet pride, "Yeah... and what is it that you're in again?"
"Management," Jake interjected. "A chain of supermarkets, boring stuff. But you with the restaurants, huh?"
Griffin anticipates Jake’s next series of questions. "Yeah. It’s been good. My father started it back in the seventies. I got involved after school, and we’re growing—gonna open one up in New Orleans, at least that’s the plan, only design concepts at this point."
Jake looked down at Griffin’s drawing tube under the seat. “Are those the plans?”
“Yep,” Griffin replied. 
As Griffin motioned towards his drawing tube, intrigue was projecting from Jake's eyes, interested by the prospect of what was inside. Their exchange now just a friendly meeting of two seat-mates that naturally unfolded on American Airlines flight 1178, red-eye to New Orleans.
"Can I see them... the plans?" Jake asked; his voice couldn’t contain his anticipation.
Griffin unlocks his seatbelt, bending to pull the drawing tube from beneath the seat. His eyes slightly squint before opening it, which could be read as either confidence or the end of his well-executed bluff. Griffin pulls out a set of architectural plans from the tube, laying them on the empty seat between them, out in the open for Jake to see. 
The drawings show detailed floor plans, each line etched with precision, intricate facades, and captivating interior elevations. Jake's eyes roamed over the drawings, admiring the artistry. He lingers on the promise of what they could be, offering words of praise, validating Griffin's talent. 
Jake, "Impressive work, Griffin! These are amazing. I can see your vision, truly, truly impressive work. To be honest... I didn’t expect something so developed and worked out, wow!" Griffin, basking for a moment, grinned. Not wanting to come off too excited, he responded with a simple.
“Thank you, appreciate the positive feedback.”
“I mean it, impressive!”
Griffin wanted to reciprocate interest in Jake’s business, so he pivots from his work to Jake’s. “Ya-know, I always wondered why grocery stores move products around from aisle to aisle, like my favorite cereal will be on aisle two, then I come back and they moved it over to aisle ten, what’s that about!”  
Jake laughs, "Keeps the customers scanning and finding new products they didn’t know about, exploring uncharted aisles can create an uptick in store purchases."
Their discussions over the flight were an eye-opening experience, at least for the businessman. Their conversation flowed from the intricacies of grocery store strategies to the development phases of Griffin’s make-believe restaurant venture, which was one of his projects from school. During it all, Griffin’s facade remained steady within the false skin he created. Similar to the designs in his drawing tube, those sketches were from his imagination on paper. His talent was in his creativity, being able to develop concepts and present them either through drawings or even by creating a fake persona as factual was one of his greatest tools.    
Yet, beneath the surface lay an undercurrent of anxiety and concern that weighed over him. On the inside, he was troubled with uncertainty, and the turning nausea in his stomach started to seep through the mask he had held in place since making it through the metal detectors back at the terminal. As a slight twitch developed in Griffin's eyes, a silent acknowledgment to the seriousness of the high-stakes game he was playing.

Chapter TWO

The plane was steadily cruising along, and flight attendants had retreated behind the curtains to steal some quiet time. Vincent sat a little less suave, his head slumped over pressed against the window shade, having succumbed to the calm of the cabin’s gentle rocking. It gave him a temporary release from the upcoming stresses ahead of him. On the other side of the cabin, Griffin was still awake, unable to sleep, nervously sketching in his notebook. Done to distract him from the anxiety that’s been building since he walked through the terminal doors. Up til now, he’s been able to keep his facade in place, making it through the metal detectors, boarding the plane, and even his banter with Jake, who’s now asleep, overcome by fatigue and his captivating conversation with Griffin. Jake’s in a deep sleep, clutching his marketing spreadsheets like a chubby infant squeezing its favorite stuffed animal.  
Griffin seized the moment of solitude to head to the plane’s restroom for privacy. Grabbing his leather case as he rose from his seat, he glanced down at Jake snoring as he passed, and walked down the aisle to the restrooms.
He stands staring at himself once within the quiet confines of the plane’s bathroom. His face was illuminated by the fluorescent light’s harsh glare above the miniature airline sink. Within the cramped space, he confronted his duplicity for the first time. He eyes his reflection in the mirror, and his cool-calm facade began to fade, revealing a different reality that he’s been hiding. His confident, measured movements in juxtaposition with his weighted, uncertain self. Griffin stared at himself, shedding the facade he’s held together since he was dropped off at the curb in front of the terminal at LAX. He loosened his tie, which mirrored his own internal release, then, undoing the buttons of his shirt, seemed to open up his lungs, finally letting in fresh air. As he pulled his shirt out from his pants, all the pressure he was holding in suddenly released with one huge exhale.
In the stillness of the night, the constant thrum of the plane’s engines dominated the environment. Griffin Oliver stood at the edge of a cliff of his own making, as the complexities beneath his false veneer were revealed. Concealed under his shirt was one of those latex-stomach wraps people use to burn belly fat. Still in football shape, wearing an exercise wrap was unnecessary, but Griffin had other objectives for using the contraption. As he ripped open the waist trimmer, a hidden cache of illegal contraband was beneath it, which washed away any pretense of perceived respectability. 
The gravity of Griffin’s covert actions was now out in the open as bundles of COCAINE cascaded down onto the bathroom floor. He stared down at the once concealed cargo scattered on the floor, realizing the lines blurred and the boundaries he’d crossed. Standing at the vertex of two worlds, he questioned himself about being prepared for where this may lead. His moral compass was being tested by the dual existence of living in a world of false appearances and hidden truths. 
As he stood on the precipice of threading the needle between architecture school and the world of drug trafficking with lifelong friends, whose origins went back even before high school, some alliances were formed as far back as elementary school. There was some sort of chemical adhesive that kept them together, built on relationships created at their genesis, having shared backgrounds, interests, and experiences. It felt like a silent oath had been taken at the time, and an unwritten covenant or pledge between them was made. Unlike most cliques formed in high school years, they disband right when grown-up life begins, right after grad-night, and real decisions have to be made. Throughout, their union held firm; never forcing anyone to do something they didn’t want to; if you were down or not, they remained tight with one another through all the growing pains of young adulthood.
To Griffin, being an only child gave their bond a family-ties vibe. So, making this decision wasn’t just about the money; this was something he wanted to experience. If only to say he cowboyed up, and was one of the ones in their circle that did it. Even-though, the money would help with school expenses, and not being on scholarship anymore did affect his decision-making. But mainly it was because he was closer to Maxwell and Vincent and felt like it was something he had to do, at least once. It wasn’t a dare or anything; it was one of those unspoken things that he didn’t want the two of them to have done, and he hadn’t. Committing to do it really wasn’t a choice. When the proposition came, he just did it.  
Griffin then picked up the bundles and placed them in his leather case. He straightened himself up, tucked his shirt back in his pants, and re-tied his tie. He looked at himself in the mirror to reposition his face back to the expression he wore before walking into the bathroom. Then, he opened the door with a renewed air of confidence and strolled back to seat 16A. 
As Griffin made his way down the aisle, he noticed that Vincent was awake, eyeing him as he passed, questioning his time in the bathroom with a sharp stare. Griffin gave him a reassuring wink as he sat beside Jake, still snoring. Griffin’s posture seemed a bit more relaxed, relieved that the illegal product was no longer strapped to his body, which gave him the feeling of having some control. Having the option to distance himself from his leather case if caught in a tight spot helped with the nausea he was living with the moment he walked into the terminal. With the tension somewhat eased, he found himself in a place where sleep was now an option. So Griffin settled back in his seat, head tilted just enough to catch the curve of the cabin wall. He wasn’t entirely at ease, but comfortable enough to close his eyes and sleep before reaching his destination.
 Now, able to doze off dreaming of days past, back when he was in high school, to the days when the Clique formed their union. A disjointed group of teenage adolescents that first found each other and shaped their friendship. A time when they were at the brink of development, a period that would take them through to becoming young adult men, taking on challenges and making decisions that would alter and form their lives for years to come.      

Chapter THREE

LOOKING BACK:

“We said we’d all go down together... but that wasn’t the case. Funny how life seems to turn out different than the pie-in-the-sky bullshit you tell yourself as a kid.” Excerpt taken from Griffin’s college journal. 

Back in the day, spring of Nineteen eighty-four, the Los Angeles sky was sheet blue, not one cloud. One of the city’s renowned high schools sits on the westside of the inner-city, west of Crenshaw Boulevard, just below Baldwin Hills, and blocks away from a cluster of tropical-styled apartment structures called the ‘Jungles’. 
It was a typical school lunch period. The quad was crammed with teenagers, each kid carving out their path through the break from class. The young souls moved about the campus like ants moving through tunnels in an ant farm. A mosaic of youthful energy, laughter bounced off the walls as kids spilled out within the confines of the school’s gates. Some clustered in tight-knit groups and social cliques, while others roamed the campus solo. Each was absorbed in their own world, struggling to find their place within the social hierarchy. 
Griffin navigated his way through the halls and campus enclaves, heading towards the grassy quad, walking up on a small group of young men engulfed in conversation, jockeying between topics of girls; sports, and girls, their futures, and girls.
Falling right in, they welcome him by giving him a ‘pound’ or ‘what’s up’ nod. Out of the numerous ones formed on campus, this clique would become a lifelong bond. They would find themselves counting on each other long after throwing their caps in the air at graduation. As Griffin entered their circle, Maxwell was holding court as usual, being the jester and most flamboyant of the group.  
Maxwell "Maxi" Harper commented on Griffin’s late arrival, “Look at’em, must’a been up under Jada, bet he’s gonna marry her ass... probably before we even graduate!” 
Griffin, his words with a casual defiance, "Me and her are cool... but I’m not ready for all that crap you talkin’, still got other situations to try, too many flavors to taste before I get locked down like that."
Maxwell responds, “Yeah, right!”
The group burst out in laughter, teasing Griffin as he attempts to downplay his relationship with his first love, Jada. 
Darwin Westchester, the cynic within their clique, "Jada’s got your balls wrapped up in a little bag, in her mind, you’re already married. But it’s all good, Jada-she’s good people. Just got ya balls, that’s all!"
Vincent Rutherford, the silent strategist, he’s the straight-shooter of the group, playfully added, "He’s just brainwashed by - the - pussy! the pussy’s got’em sneaking off going home during third period, I see-’em coming back with smiles on their faces."
Griffin, with a nonchalant grin, countered, "I know how to handle it... I know what I’m doin’..."
Maxwell chimed in, "Fuckin... that’s what you’re doin’... Workin’ on making-a little big-headed Griff!"
Griffin shot back, "Just cause your girl ain’t giving it up, don’t front on me." Laughter erupts, mixing with the chatter from other nearby clusters in the quad, having their lunchtime powwows. All the adolescent soundbites combine, creating a tapestry of sonic noises throughout the courtyard.
As they continue ragging on each other, Quinn "Q" Becker, the realist, steers the conversation in another direction, "Fuck all that talk, what’s the plan when we get outta here? We all know Maxwell ain’t gettin’ no pussy from Alyssa, she ain’t falling for ya drag, dude."
As they teased Maxwell, a figure emerged from their periphery. Marcus Knox walked up, with a low-key nod, "What’s poppin’ fellas."
Darwin, "Motherfuckers talkin’ about bitches.”
Quinn’s fixed on Marcus, pointing a finger at him, teasing, hitting him in the chest, "Ha... I bet I can guess where you been."
Marcus, already anticipating his line of questioning, fired back, "Fuck you!"
"Your head’s been up your ass, running behind Tesha," Darwin pressed.
Marcus conceded, "...Ahright,  I was having lunch with Tesha, so what!?"
Maxwell never missing an opportunity for a joke, "You mean BUYING her lunch!"
A unanimous acknowledgment of Marcus' Achilles heel came from the group, his weakness for the ladies.
"Maxi Fuck You! you don’t know what I been doin, Ya know what, fuck you’al! Thought we were supposed to be talking about our plan after graduation!?" Marcus snapped back with an attempt to change the subject.
Keith Williams, ever the pragmatist, the Switzerland of the group, chimes in. “I did see you sneakin’ around after fourth period yesterday, trying not to get caught with Sonya, cause Tesha would murder ya ass if she found that shit out, ya-playin with fire, Man, fire!” 
Darwin offers up a cautionary word, "What I tell you. All ya’ll need to step off these broads before you get one of’em pregnant. Then what you gonna do..."
In the background, Quinn's voice added, "Have an abortion, what else!"
"All I know is whatever plans you got are done, feneto." Vincent added, mocking his sister, “Diapers nigga, where’s the diapers!... when are you gonna bring the fuck’in diapers, if you don’t bring no diapers, don’t bring your ass over here!” He stands up in the middle of their circle. “With a baby, that’s all I hear my sister yapp’in about with her man...that’s her world.”
Griffin is defiant, "That shit ain’t happenin’ to me!"
The scene shifts as a couple of female classmates decide to penetrate the clique’s private cluster to discuss last weekend's coed slumber party. One of the girls quickly interjects, “You know we can have the next party at Kim’s house, cause her parents are going outta town.” She informs the group just as the lunch bell rings, signaling the end to their brief midday intermission.
The once-manic atmosphere in the quad withers as clusters break, pods disband, and members of ensembles splinter. As they disperse, the student body leaves lingering sounds of laughter and the chatter of gossip as they head off to their next period. 
Echoes of their festive vibe remain; now, only memories are left in the grassy quad. For the clique, it’s where their bond was strengthened, solidifying the foundation of their friendship, and cementing alliances in the hope it would withstand the test of time.

Chapter NINETEEN

Griffin strolled out of the LAX terminal with the cool ease of a seasoned professional. His stride now indifferent to his surroundings, he’s become well-acquainted with the routine. A car is waiting curbside for his arrival. Stacy Webb, his main girl in the city of angels, rolls down the passenger side window. “What, you’re some kinda super-fly-slash-business man!?”  
He remained in character as he approached the car, opening the door, tossing his drawing tube carelessly in the back seat, and giving Stacy a deep, welcoming kiss. “That’s what I expect from my man, after not seeing me for three days!” She lovingly responds, happy but mainly relieved that he made it back. Griffin sat back as she pulled out from the curb, slashing through the Los Angeles streets. Griffin opened his backpack, pulling out a couple of notebooks for school. 
"Hey, baby, can you drop me off at school?" With a bit of urgency. "Missed my drawing class this morning, but I can make the lecture this afternoon."
Stacy nodded yes, punching down on the gas pedal. "So, how was your trip?" She asked, trying not to come off too nosy.
"We partied a bit... ya-know," Griffin.
"Partied a bit? In New Orleans? Come on!" She snapped back.
"Okay, there were broads everywhere! Ass and tits all over the place, we were wildin’ out!" He added with a laugh to tease.
"That sounds more like what probably happen... For-real, what did you guys do-actually?" She pressed.
"Nothing much. I did get my boogie on at a club, and drank-just the typical. There’s only so much I could get into in three days." Griffin’s nonchalant words were an attempt to deflect from the actual events that took place in the double life he’s been leading.
"I know how many days it was, I also know how much YOU could get into," Stacy countered. "So, you see that ex of yours, did you see her?" 
Griffin thought about his next words carefully, “Ah... she got a new position at her job, so not really. Hey, I got this art show that one of my instructors told me about, we should go-do dinner, drinks, all of that, ya-down?” His attempt to deflect failed.
She cut him a mean look, with eyes that revealed her pending vex. "There you go with that shit again! Ya-think changing the subject bullshit gonna work!? I know your game."
"No, that's real. No bullshit, we did go out a couple of times, that’s all." Griffin insisted, as his eyes danced, not making direct contact.
"Anyway... I see you don’t want to talk about anything real," she sighed. "You know your mom is catching on; she’s been asking if you’re down there doing illegal shit with Maxi."
"Yeah, she’s been ridin' me about that," he admitted.
"I told her you wouldn’t."
"I’m down wit-them... but not goin too deep," Griffin replied.
"I’m not goin’ to tell you what to do, but you're doing too much. Months of these trips. I know how tight you guys are, but that high school shit... You gotta let that go! You-got too much to lose," Stacy urged him to consider the consequences.
"I know, I know. Can’t I even get in town for two minutes before you start in on me?" Griffin defensive.
He turned up the car radio, searching for some peace in a melody. As they drove through the city streets, they barely spoke for the rest of the trip.
As she pulled up to the side of the lecture hall, putting the car in park, she made a last attempt to leave him with words to do the right thing. "You know-I love your dirty draws man, but you're fuckin' this up, dude!"
"I love you, too. I’m just..." His words trailed off as he stared at her, her expression full of worry and concern.
"You got one more semester and you're done. Now you're off fuckin' around with this shit, I don’t see it!?" Her voice revealed how this back-and-forth is affecting her.    
Griffin leaned in for a kiss, but the impact was awkward, off tempo, not the easy and familiar way their mouths usually found each other. She pulled back, looking him up and down as if there was something different about him.     
So tell me, what’s up? Am I still your girl? Cause I can leave you to it!?  
“No, of course you’re my girl, come on with that. Yes, saw my ex; she is in Atlanta in school, shes-moved on doing her thing. No issues with that.” He gave her what he believed would smooth things over.  
"I gotta go to class." As he gathered his books, he opened the car door to exit.
"Give me a better kiss. Fool!" Stacy playfully demanded.
This time the kiss landed, amid the risk they both knew he was playing with, Griffin darted out of the car, making a mad dash towards class.
"See you tonight!" He called out over his shoulder as he disappeared into the lecture hall.
Once inside the classroom, Griffin found a seat, blending seamlessly into the sea of students, sitting beside a familiar face that greeted him with a nod of recognition.
"What’s up, Griffin?" the student asked.
"Not much, same-same." His tone casual, calm after the firestorm he just left.
"You heard this asshole moved the test up to this Wednesday!?" the student whispered.
"What? Shit! Thought I’d have this week to go over it," Griffin said, shocked.
"Yep, this Wednesday," the student confirmed.
As the professor entered the room, Griffin's two-way pager went off, drawing unwanted attention from the lecturer. With a quick glance, Griffin peeked down, noticing NIA’s name on the LCD screen.

Chapter TWENTY-TWO

Back at the house, Maxwell is packing a suitcase for his trip to Atlanta. On the other side of the room, Vincent sits on the couch, absorbed in a convo on his two-way pager. As Maxwell picks out his wardrobe, he throws the ones that didn’t make the cut at the end of the couch, annoying Vincent.  
“So Griffin took the train with that broad, Nia?” Maxwell smirked as he tossed another pair of jeans next to Vincent.
“Yep,” Vincent, head down, reading messages from his two-way pager. 
“It’s gonna take that mothafucka twelve hours... me-a hour and-a half, that nigga’s crazy. At least he’s bringing the work, but hangin’ with that broad - I don’t know about that!?” Maxwell is concerned about Griffin’s relationship with Nia.  
Vincent, not looking up from his pager. “That shit will play it-self out. He got it.”
“He better!” Maxwell, putting down the law. 
Vincent smiles. “You the one we gotta worry about, all the bitches you runnin’ through here, mister-Kingpin!”
“Fuck -- you!” Maxwell laughed zipping up his luggage. 
Vincent pushes Maxwell’s unchosen wardrobe to the side. “Taking the train is the lick, and twelve hours... shit, that’s a lot of fuckin you can get in, he got one of them with a bed, toilet-all that, I might hav-ta try that shit.” Considering the possibilities.   
Maxwell, “You might be right... think bout gettin two of them private rooms, bring two-broads, and bounce back-and-forth between cabins, hell yeah!” Letting out a wild laugh. 
“That’ll be a double-double for real!” Vincent shot back, as they both share a rare laugh.  
“Lil ‘C’ and Greg took off this morning, should have my ride down there before I get there.” Changing subjects.  
“You tell Darwin and Marcus about Greg?” This time, Vincent looked up from his pager, making eye contact.
“Nah.” Maxwell looked around the room to see if anyone else was in earshot. “Them two fools need to know when I feel like tellin’ em. As far as Griff, I’ll pull his coat in Atlanta... he’s not gonna want-ta be left out, bet he’ll want in. He’ll drop that school shit!” Maxwell exclaims. 
Marcus walks into the room. “Maxi, you ready?”
“Yeah,” Maxwell grabs his suitcase.
As Maxwell and Marcus head out the door, Vincent stops them. "Surve hit me up askin’ for some weird shit... he wanted to buy too much work," Vincent was suspicious. "I acted like I didn't know what the fuck he was talkin’ about, I think... he might've got popped."
"You're paranoid, man, he might-of had a come up, Surve been down for-a-minute. When I was solo, before ya’ll, I was turnin’ corners with him.” Maxwell not worried, believing Vincent should chill out. 
“Whatever... I ain’t sellin’ that nigga shit!” Vincent, standing on his point. 
Maxwell declared with a note of finality, "We movin’ to Atlanta, anyway, all that scary shit you feeling. Surve ain’t coming with us!? Man, kill that noise."
Vincent is persistent, and the tension between them is growing as they continue to have differences in the way they want to run the operation. 
"We need to freeze everything! Stop the work, hold till we make the move, no business with Surve... no body. I’m tellin’ you he didn't sound right," Vincent continued to push his point.
"I don't fuck with that dude anyway," Marcus showed his alignment with Vincent. 
"I'm putting the brakes on, till the move. Ain't sellin' shit to nobody out here, sold the last of my work on a deal I made back home. Told Darwin to leave the rest of my shit-in L.A.," Vincent declared his position.
"Well, that’s your-shit! Griffin got mines, going to ATL. When Darwin get here, he’s bringing in work for him and Marcus, it’s up to them how they want to move. After that, WE can take a damn vacation!" Maxwell proposed, pulling his suitcase closer toward the door.
Vincent eyes Marcus, “All I’m sayin’ is I wouldn’t fuck with nobody out here. I’m tellin’ ya’ll what I just told ‘D’ on the two-way, but he gonna do what HE wants to do. I wouldn’t fuck with none of these motherfuckas!” 
Maxwell and Marcus nods silently, not too concerned about Vincent's forecast. He stares, following them with a hard look as they leave, closing the door behind them.
"Fuck them...," Vincent said to himself, frustrated that no one took his warning to heart. He got up from the couch, leaving the room, passing the clothes Maxwell had left behind. 
On the other side of the city, the New Orleans Union train station stood monolithic in the southern Louisiana night sky. Its architecture, a symbolic tribute to the timeless elegance of the French Quarter, was adorned with ornate arches and wrought-iron detailing that lined the passenger platform.
The presence of passengers bound for new destinations filled the walkways leading to waiting trains. Among them are Griffin and Nia, their steps synchronized in anticipation of the adventure ahead. Griffin is casually dressed in jeans and a polo jacket; his demeanor is chill despite traveling with concealed cargo tucked away in his backpack. 
Nia, oblivious to what Griffin is caring, is radiant and joyfully looking forward to their upcoming escapade. As Porters stand in front of departing train cars, one called out, “Amtrak Crescent to Atlanta, deluxe sleeping car 5911, this way-this way!” Hand in hand, they walk up to the porter, showing him their ticket. He quickly inspects their tickets, pulling off the tab and handing them back to Griffin. 
The porter, who stood about six feet six, smiled, looking down at the two of them, “Griffin Oliver, right?” I got you two love birds, you’re in Deluxe Bedroom B. Let me get that door for you.” 
They boarded the train following the porter, playfully making their way down the aisle. They arrived at their private car, and the porter slid the car door open, and began pointing out the car’s amenities, “Your bathroom... and your call button for anything you may need on your trip, wake-up calls, meal reservations, and bed service.” Then a gesture toward the sofa that converted into the bed, “I can show you how to turn down the bedding-” 
Nia, cut him off, “No, I got it, thanks.” 
He acknowledged her instruction with a complementary nod and continued with his standard check-in script, “The dining car seats passengers until 8 pm for dinner, I can get you guys seated or bring your meal to your room. Last call is in 15, so let me know. Also, starting at 6:30 the dining car opens bright and early for breakfast!” 
They look at each other, talking with their eyes, “I think we’re good on dinner, but that 6:30 breakfast-yes!” Nia voices as the porter nods in agreement. 
He turned to leave, as he headed off down the corridor, “I’ll be down the hall if you need anything. There will be a call for breakfast in the morning.”   
Alone at last, Nia and Griffin gave each other a look of exhilaration as they jokingly high-fived each other. Both were laughing as they plopped down on the sofa. Griffin, amazed by the size and comforts of the private car, “Wow-our own sink an-toilet. That window, damn! This is the business!” 
Nia, pleased that he’s pleased. "See, I told you it would be nice," with girly jubilation.
"This is the bomb, the only thing was the time it's gonna take to get to Atlanta," Griffin added.
"Time, huh?" Nia gave him a deep look in his eyes, "Hmm... Let's see what we could do with all this time." They both start to smile, forming wide grins across their faces, super wide and unspoken, like they already knew where it was going.
As the locomotive pushed off from the station, panoramic views and shimmering lights filled their cabin with historic architecture of New Orleans as it passed, framed within their cabin window. Mindful of the ambiance, Nia dimmed the lights, creating a moment of intimacy. She then pulled Griffin in close, and their bodies bounced off the lights from the city as their lips met. Igniting a passionate exchange as the sway of the train worked in unison as they vibed out all night.

Chapter TWENTY-SIX

Nia navigates through the neighborhood streets of Atlanta, being a mysterious guide and leading Griffin with purpose, as he sits in the passenger seat, unaware of their destination. "Where we goin’?" Griffin asked, scanning the road ahead.
"To eat... but first, gonna make a stop you need to see," Nia explained.
"Well, I’m all yours now, you got me." 
She pulled onto the I-75 freeway headed towards the busy Downtown Connector. Making it through the midday traffic, she exited at Freedom Parkway. Not telling him where they were going had Griffin wondering, but he didn’t seem to mind it. After their train ride, his trust began to grow, before he might have thought this was some setup by her brother, Nikki. But now, the closeness they experienced started to make things genuine for them both. This made his choices even more difficult. It was almost better before when he had questions about her intentions, now he was beginning to believe that she really had love for him, and wanted to start something real, like a long-term relationship. So he sat back and relaxed, letting her guide him to their destination with an open mind and a trusting heart. 
 Nia continued through the city streets, making her final turn on John Wesley Dobbs Avenue, pulling up to the Martin Luther King Jr. National Historical Park. Arriving at its hallowed grounds, the location of Dr. King’s burial crypt. It was majestically staged, surrounded by a beautiful reflection pool. The inscription on the side of his crypt read, “Free at last, Free at last, Thank God Almighty, I’m Free at last.” 
Griffin's eyes widen in awe, truly affected by Nia’s choice. As he takes in the sights, his appreciation for the woman she revealed had Griffin shook. And with each new move, his eyes started to swell from the emotions of the moment.
“Oh... Damn! I’ve always wanted to see this... You brought me here, wow, cool-very cool... fuckin significant, this was... the right thing!” He can’t stop looking at her, sizing up this other side of her as they walked through the historical monuments. 
“I thought this would be a change for you... something different from the usual, more of what I vibe to. I’m not just a party girl with a crazy brother. I could feel you needed a little culture in your life.” Hugging him, followed up with a passionate kiss. 
“You could feel that, huh? I needed this slow down... the train and this... all of it.”
“I know, it’s why I brought you here. I think you’ll love this city, got a lot of positive things here.” Nia is making a strong push for Griffin to spend more time with her. Similar to Maxwell’s pitch but for completely different reasons, both having their own set of risks and rewards for committing to what they proposed. 
“After this, I have to stop by my school, then this bomb food spot! Then maybe some...” dropping him a seductive wink, “...you know what.” Nia is clearly laying her cards on the table, giving him a taste of the available perks. 
Griffin is taking notice that she’s more than he initially thought when they met at the club in New Orleans. And if they continue, he would have to try to smooth things out with her brother as she becomes someone he feels he can now trust.
Griffin stops, grabbing Nia’s arm, “Hey, all this is dope, like I--” 
“What, don’t want to leave?” Nia cut him off before he could complete his thought. 
She takes him by the hand, and they continue the tour, heading towards the famed Ebenezer Baptist Church. As they walked up to the church, Griffin eyed the architecture. “I remember seeing this on TV in black and white!”
Nia can tell by the glassy sheen in Griffin’s eyes that he was moved by the moment, and that this made a deep impression on him. It brought out a more intense aspect to their connection, bringing to the surface the duality he was experiencing. He wasn’t just living two lives; he was loving in both. He felt like a man standing in two different rooms, never fully inside the other. The struggle wasn’t keeping them separate, but not knowing which one he was truly in. And the critical effects his next moves would have on his life and those closest to his heart and future plans. His dilemma was not just which path to take, but how long before one life swallowed the other, and what would be the fallout from the side consumed.   

Chapter THIRTY

Outside the house, the rain tapped against the windows like impatient fingertips, while inside, in the warmth, Maxi, Griff, Marcus, Vincent, and Greg are gathered around the pool table as the light from the television flared images of Sports Center throughout the room as they played a game of pool. Maxi, playing a game of solids and stripes against Marcus, as the rest mill around the game, drinking, and taking in the action.
Standing off to the side, Griffin leaned against the wall with the phone pressed tight to his ear. Eyes switched between the pool game and the intense conversation he wished would end.
"Tomorrow... call you tomorrow-I’ll be back in L.A. in a couple of days... my class isn’t until Wednesday. Yeah, I know... tomorrow, ahright, yes... You too," Griffin whispered into the receiver before hanging up with a decisive click.
Looking up, Griffin now shifts his full attention to the guys. "Hey, what are we gonna get into?" 
Marcus quickly chimed in before taking his shot, "I’m hooking up with Eve tonight."
His words caused a pause within the group, as they all knew something he didn’t, a hidden understanding hung in the room as the guys concealed their thoughts about his comment. Vincent shot a side-eye in Maxwell’s direction, and they shared a silent exchange.
"So, Maxwell, what you gettin’ into tonight?" Vincent's voice cut through the room.
Maxwell hesitated before responding, "Ah... I’m gonna catch up with some broad."
Vincent's eyebrows arched, aware of Maxwell's real plans. "Some broad, huh?" he repeated.
"Yeah, me and Greg’s got a couple of dimes, we’re gonna chill with them," Maxwell affirmed.
Marcus missed another shot, giving up, he leaned the pool stick against the table to dial up Eve on the phone. She doesn’t answer, so he leaves a detailed message about their plans for the night on her answering machine. He then grabbed the stick again to take another shot. “Damn, can’t seem to drop any balls in the pocket!” He declared, which was obvious. 
“Shit, we can see that, Marcus, all your balls still on the damn table,” Vincent jokes as he walks over placing his arm around Griffin, "So I guess that leaves just us two, unless Marcus wants to hang tonight."
"Nah, I’m good, haven't got with her in a minute, so tonight it’s gonna be on and cracking, she knows about tonight," Marcus asserts to the group.
Meanwhile, Maxwell retreated to his bedroom, making outfit selections. He’s in the middle of a sensual back-and-forth, chatting it up with Eve on the phone. Maxwell has wedged himself in a messy triangle between Marcus, and what once was Marcus’s main girl.

#

The rain continued to fall onto the streets with a relentless purpose, drenching everything as if nature wanted to cleanse everyone of their sins. Within the luxurious interiors of an exclusive Dinner Club sat Vincent and Griffin, indulging in fine wine and cuisine.
"Told you... You’d like this place, ah a little different from all the other shit," Vincent remarked.
"The fillet mignon was thick," Griffin replied.
"Went well with that wine, huh..."
Griffin smirked. "Took yo ass to sell dope to get refined!"
Vincent laughed. "With a little dough in ya pockets, a lotta shit can change."
"True," Griffin lifted his glass, sending Vincent an air toast.
A waiter approached their table as they raved about the food and laid-back atmosphere. “Is there anything else, dessert?” He asked. 
They both accepted the offer, giving the waiter their choice of dessert, “No problem, I’ll bring that right out.” The waiter walked off, and Vincent lingered at him as he retreated toward the kitchen. He had a spark of recognition in his eyes. "Don’t he look like one of them fools from the club that night, that was with your girl Nia’s brother?"
Griffin shook his head dismissively. "Nah... I don’t think so... in here?"
Vincent frowned with a shadow of concern. "Shit’s getting way too hot, I’m paranoid about everything. They too sloppy, selling product out the damn laundromat! Maxi fucked this shit up."
"All I know is that Darwin is done with him, you know how nutty ‘D’ is." Griffin dropped.
Vincent nodded. "I know... they be at each other's throats all the time... My girl wants me to get out of this... come back home."
"I told them that shit ain’t right," Vincent continued. "Then I heard Serve got hemmed up, he said he wasn’t holding,  so they let him go... don’t trust that shit."
Griffin is absorbing all of Vincent's words. "Feel you. We all gotta watch our backs..."
Vincent’s attention drifted to the restaurant's front lobby, his eyes narrowing as he thought he caught sight of another figure he recognized, "Hey, now this is crazy... that looked like Nikki, by the front.” 
Griffin quickly turned to look, but didn’t get a clear view of the guy Vincent was talking about. He turns back to Vincent, “Now you gettin’ ME all paranoid in here, I’m the one ya’ll always making fun of, now you.” 
Vincent shook his head, not sure if he saw what he thought he saw. “Maybe I’m tripping, all the talk about the move to Atlanta got me overthinkin’. Cause it’s blown as far as me doing any work here... I’m not sellin’ nothing in this place!"
Griffin, with a note of finality in his voice. "Fuck it, when we go back to LA tomorrow, that’s it. Until ya’ll move to Atlanta, I’m not coming back here." 
"That's what I’d do," Vincent agreed. "I’m tying up all my ends, moving shit around, and I’m out. Let them fight over this bullshit."
Their conversation stopped as their waiter returned with dessert. The noise of plates mingled with the chatter from nearby diners and the mood music playing overhead, all set the perfect dining experience up til now. 
Vincent’s instincts kicked in as the waiter set their desserts down; a sense of danger tingled at the back of his neck. He caught the eye of the waiter as he was leaving, which lasted a bit longer than normal. This was the tell -- a sign in their world, which confirmed his suspicions.
The waiter returned, approaching their table. "G," Vincent’s voice barely above a whisper, his eyes darted to him as he approached.
Griffin can hear the warning in his voice, there’s a silent understanding between them. "What’s up!?"
Vincent nods, "Check this waiter when he comes."
The waiter closed in, Griffin turned, his hand nervously inched down towards the gun he had tucked in his pants. He pulled it out, holding it under the table.
"We doin’ this in here?" Griffin’s voice quivered from the tension of the moment.
Vincent nodded “yes”, his jaw clenched. "If this motherfucka does anything it’s on, if it goes left, we meet at the car."
Griffin tightened his grip around the handle of his gun, eyes sharply aware of his surroundings. Time slowed, every frame was recorded in detail in his mind. The cool laid back atmosphere of the restaurant had now turned into nothing more than a typical hood joint on the side of town they had left to find some peace of mind. The waiter approached their table, his demeanor seemingly chill, no threat, yet Vincent's instincts felt different.
"So will that be it?" His voice was polished.
"We’ll take the check," Griffin replied.
The waiter nodded back, then with a cunning smile said, "Ah-aight," breaking the well-spoken persona he used before.  
Beneath the veneer of professionalism used during their meal was a menace, and now to use that term put Vincent on alert. As the waiter turned, Vincent noticed he was wearing Timberland boots and all the other waiters wore proper dress shoes. Vincent’s worst fears were realized when he checked the unmistakable bulge of steel hidden beneath his high-waisted uniform blazer.
Griffin, sat at the ready, watched Vincent’s eyes as they bulged, he reached down for his gun. The waiter turned back toward them, pulling his bronze Desert Eagle out from his waist. It was a huge weapon that announced itself, that unmistakable barrel and squared edges that sat heavy in his hand. Taking direction from Vincent, Griffin pulled his gun up from under the table as the waiter pointed his. Griffin struck first, opening up, hitting him in the chest. As the waiter fell onto his back, his massive gun discharged multiple booming rounds up into the ceiling. This created shock and awe in the restaurant as the once elegant crowd watched in horror. The waiter turned out to be exactly who Vincent thought he was, one of the guys from the club that night, part of Nikki’s crew, and brother of Nia.
As the sounds of gunfire erupt, shattering the tranquility of the night, sending patrons running in every direction in a panic. Griffin's aim was true as he unleashed his volley of bullets, sending the shooter to the floor unconscious, leaking from chest wounds. In the chaos, Vincent and Griffin’s eyes meet, talking without saying a word, they make a dash for the exit. 
Nikki emerged from the front lobby, making his way through the crowd searching for Griffin and Vincent, as guests and employees made a mad dash trying to escape the violence. Griffin and Vincent mixed within the crowd as they made their way to the lobby, lined by a long full-plated glass window at the restaurant’s front entrance. Nikki spotted them and opened fire in the middle of restaurant guests with no concern for who he might hit. They both react to bullets headed in their direction, ducked down, and continued running with the crowd through the chaos. 
As they make it to the long corridor close to the front door, one of Nikki’s crew is waiting. He shot wildly through the mix of restaurant guests and employees frantically trying to get out of the way of the incoming bullets. Vincent stopped in the thick of bodies flashing in every direction and took aim, dropping the guy to the floor. With that, things were calm, Nikki, nowhere to be found, and the gunshots stopped. Griffin and Vincent then took off for the front doors. Feet away from making their escape, another one of Nikki’s crew came out from nowhere and tackled Vincent to the floor. Their bodies entangled went crashing through the large plate glass window, out into the rain. They both fell between the building and the manicured bushes that lined the restaurant.
Griffin ran to the edge of the broken window, looking down into the shrubbery, calling out. “Vincent! Vincent!” He spots them tussling in the bushes. As he goes to help, a SUV screeched to a stop next to the curb and its occupants unleashed a hail of bullets at Griffin inside. Shattering more of the glass window and creating a second wave of fury, sending everyone ducking and hiding all over.   
Griffin dove under a table, crossed between loyalty to Vincent and self-preservation, he stayed down until the shooting stopped. The SUV peeled off down the street, hearing the sounds of approaching sirens. Now able to rise from under cover along with employees and guests, Griffin rushed over to where Vincent went through the window. He peered down in the bushes, but saw nothing. Vincent wasn’t there; it was as if he had disappeared into the night. “Fuck!” Realizing he’s alone, he heads out of the restaurant and into the parking lot.
Griffin makes it over to where the car was parked, but it’s gone. The sirens are getting closer by the second, and time is running out. People are milling around the parking lot, still in shock, trying to collect themselves from the trauma they experienced. From across the parking lot in the distance, Griffin can see Vincent slowly driving, weaving through the aftermath, making his way towards him. He makes a beeline for Vincent’s direction, relieved that he hadn’t left him.    
With sirens nearing, Vincent, trying not to be noticed, kept his speed at a pace not to stand out as he made his way through the parking lot. He needed to get outta there before the police arrived and boxed him in the restaurant lot to investigate the shooting. As he nears Griffin, only a couple of car lengths between them, Vincent motioned to him. 
“Hurry up!” Vincent waved, who didn’t want to be noticed by those in the crowd gathering about, talking with each other about what happened. 
Tire smoke burns as an SUV speeds through the parking lot with Nikki in the passenger seat, his body hanging out the window, gun in hand, opening fire on Vincent. Bullets pierced the car windshield, causing Vincent to duck under the dashboard. The employees and restaurant guests who were finally getting somewhat composed over the violence are once again forced to scatter in fear from flying bullets being discharged. Through the reign of bullets, Vincent and Griffin make eye contact one last time as Vincent passes him, having to speed off. Nikki in the SUV takes chase, leaving Griffin standing there, watching as both cars speed out of the lot and down the city street. The police then pull in, sirens roaring. They screech to a stop in front of the restaurant entrance. Police doors fly open with guns in hand, some officers rush into the restaurant, and others move to lock down the area. A group of employees rushed to point out the direction Nikki’s SUV sped off to, and a couple of police cars peeled off in their direction. Griffin, still standing, frozen between parked cars. Moments earlier, he was just feet away from making it into the car with Vincent. Now realizing he can’t be caught up in an investigation, makes his break. He calmly turned, making his way out of the parking lot on foot and into the rain-soaked streets of New Orleans.      

#

Sitting in the dimly lit interior of his car was Marcus, his eyes fixed on Eve's apartment window. The rain had stopped, and sporadic raindrops hit against his windshield. His fingers tapped against the surface of his two-way pager as he reluctantly typed in her pager number, after not getting an answer on her apartment phone.
Inside the apartment, a soft glow radiated from candles, casting shadows throughout the room. The vibe was the scent of strawberries and the half-empty champagne bottle on the table. Maxwell lounged on the couch, eyes fixed on the images of a basketball game playing out on the television screen.
"Come on, baby, turn that off," Eve's voice, smooth as silk, her barely clothed body moving seductively around the room.
"In a minute," the game captured Maxwell's attention.
The piercing chime of her pager cut through the sexy aroma she had in play for Maxwell’s visit. Her attention went toward the ID displayed on the screen of her pager as she picked it up from the table.
"It’s your boy again," she announced.
"Answer it." Maxwell was indifferent; his eyes never left the television screen.
Marcus, in his car, his messages sent but not answered, hit hard in the confined space. Looking down the block, he spots Maxwell’s Mercedes parked, not directly in front of her apartment but close enough.
He decided to leave her another message.
Marcus: Hey - thought we were hooking up tonight?? - What happened?
Eve paced restlessly, thinking of what to text him back. Maxwell remained seated, a silent observer to the unfolding drama, his attention divided between the television and her uncomfortable situation that he created. She responded, typing a swift excuse.  

Eve: Hey babe, we gotta try it tomorrow - my mom came by - gotta deal with her issues tonight - lets do it big tomorrow ok!!
A ping finally came through his pager with an answer. Marcus reads it with disappointment and returns it with a short, flaccid response. 
Marcus: OK - No problem.
Eve stood by the window, looking down at Marcus as he started up his car and disappeared into the dark, cold street as drizzle continued to fall.
In the apartment, Maxwell's eyes still glued to the television. His expression suddenly shifted from laid-back to bug-eyed as he watched the news report unfolding on the screen.
"Come look at this shit!" Maxwell shouted, drawing Eve's attention away from the window.
She sat next to him, her eyes fixated on the screen as the news report continued. As they both stared in wonder at the live shot of flashing lights from police cars and yellow tape in front of the restaurant where Griffin and Vincent were having dinner.
The Newscaster’s voice spilled out from the TV speakers, “Reports have confirmed that one man was taken to the hospital in critical condition, reportedly unresponsive at the scene.” Both their mouths hung open as the newscaster continued. “Maison Des Fleurs is the kind of place you take someone to impress. It is white linens and champagne, and for business meetings and anniversary dinners. An upscale kind of place, not a place where you would expect bodies and bullets... Details are still coming in-”

  "Motha-fuck! That’s where Vincent was!" Maxwell yelled.
His pager buzzed in his pocket.
‘911’ was the message he received, which was the code from them to get to the house asap. Maxwell hops up from the couch, calling Greg from Eve’s phone.
"What happened!?" Maxwell's questioning was sharp, his eyes narrowed as he listened to Greg's account.
"In a minute," Maxwell hung up, his movements now quick and purposeful.
Eve watched him with a mixture of understanding and fear.
"Shit... You leaving... did one of your boys get shot, in all that?" her voice a whisper.
"I’ll hit you later," Maxwell's voice was distant as he closed her apartment door.
Once outside, Maxwell moved cautiously to his car, sensing the heightened danger that may be hiding in the shadows, waiting for him.

#

On the streets still slick from rain, Griffin turned off in an alley, stopping at a couple of trash dumpsters. He pulled the gun from his pants, wiping it clean with his shirt. Then, taking the gun and the clip, and stuffing them deep in different dumpsters. Now free from the weapon, he walked out from the alley onto Chartres Street, a historic area close to Jackson Square. He made his way through the reflection of neon lights bouncing off puddles on the pavement, through the sparse crowd that came out after the rain had stopped to enjoy what was left of the night in the French Quarter.  
Meanwhile, Vincent cruised the streets, scanning the shadows for any sign of Griffin, who had lost his two-way pager during all the chaos at the restaurant.
Griffin, on the move, his footsteps quick and determined as he walked past hotels and jazz clubs, finally choosing to stop a passing United Cab. Once inside the taxi, he seemed to settle, thinking about everything that happened, how good it was going hanging with Vincent and how quickly it turned bad, and actually having to use a gun, maybe taking a life. His mind drifted, prompting the taxi driver to ask, “Where we going, young Man?” Griffin snapped back to the present, pausing for a moment to gather his thoughts.
As he sat in the back seat of the cab, trying to remember the address to the house, he pulled his airplane ticket from his pocket. And on the ticket flap, he had written down the house address. As he stared down at the ticket, the Taxi driver repeated, “Son, where are you going?” 
Griffin looked up, catching the eye of the driver in the rear view mirror. “To the airport... New Orleans International.” He finally replied.  
“Okay, young Man, okay, to the airport we go... No luggage, no umbrella... no problem...” The taxi driver said with a touch of sarcasm, cutting Griffin a squinting eye through the rear-view mirror. Then added, “And we’re off!” As he pulled out from the curb. Griffin met him with a stern frown, then looked back down at his airplane ticket. Thinking of his heart-to-heart with Vincent at the restaurant before the shooting started, what effect would all this have on his relationship with Nia, and would Maxwell even want him in Atlanta after bouncing on them during this crisis?
His mind was crossed between two parallels. One moved through the day with ease, saying the right things and wearing the right face. While the other lived underground, in the raw, constantly clocking the exits. He was caught in between the creases, torn between the peace he claimed to want and the chaos he’d grown to crave. This time, he’d flown too close to the sun as Icarus had, only he survived his ordeal, which made his next move all the more significant.

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